Fahrenheit
by Wilhelmina Willoughby
Summary: Quil and Claire have a lot of growing up do to. With werewolves, vampires, and danger all around, the strength of something more than love will be needed to bring these two to a happy ending.
1. Chapter One

_A/N: I've always wanted to write a Quil/Claire story, so here we are! It's probably not a good idea to start on this while working on my other fic, Quiet Summer, but the Spring and Summer Breaks are coming up, so I should have time enough for both. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and please don't hesitate to review!_

_As always,  
Mina :)_

* * *

**FAHRENHEIT**

ONE: WAKE UP

* * *

"You're a _what?_"

"I – we're werewolves."

I want to laugh. I want so desperately to laugh, because the image of big Quil turning into a little wolf and running around howling at the moon is too funny to resist, but it clicks. Quil's a wolf; they're all wolves. They haven't aged. They're huge. They're inhumanly strong and agile and sure-footed. Embry should've bled to death when he got in that car accident, but he didn't. Jacob should've lost his finger when he burned it at the garage, but he didn't. Seth shouldn't have been able to eat two whole turkeys in four minutes, but he did. They're _wolves_.

And they're all staring at me, their suddenly identical brown eyes searching for some sign of life in mine. I shake my head, because I know they expect me to be cool with this, like it's no big deal, like I should've known it all along. I should have – it's so damn obvious now that I look at it – but I hadn't a clue. It's such a ridiculous thought. Werewolves? Like the ones from Billy's beach stories? No _way_. But there's nothing else to explain it. Quil changed my diapers when I was a baby; Quil taught me how to swim; Quil saved me from my first heartbreak; Quil was my first dance on my sixteenth birthday. _And he hasn't gotten any older._

"You're wolves," I breathe.

It makes sense. The way they never really all fit into Aunt Em's older house makes sense. The way they can practically pick up vehicles makes sense. The torn clothes and scars and bruises make sense. It's like I'm seeing them for the first time, like being taken from one extreme to another, like everything I thought I knew was wrong, so wrong, and faces I thought I knew every inch of are strangers; their skin is all the very same tone of cinnamon, their hair the very same shade of black, and their individual features fade away into a blur of people I don't know anymore, because they're all related in this _wolf_ way and God, how did I not _know?_

"Claire," somebody says, reaching for me.

I know it's Quil by the sound of his voice, but his face is new to me and I can't look at him. My shoulders tense and I take a step back, wrenching my arm from his grasp. "_Don't – touch – me."_

"Claire…"

He moves closer, and I've nowhere to go because the wall is pushing me forward, preventing my escape, making me face this. I stare at the floor, my hands in fists at my sides, and try not to scream.

"Claire, we were going to tell you. I was going to tell you. I wanted to tell you earlier, a long time ago, but Sam – Sam and Jake – "

Somebody's phone goes off.

Uncle Sam's hand goes to his belt and I watch, wordlessly, as he flips his cell phone open. He waits for a few seconds, says a single word – "Yes" – and shuts it. When he looks around the room, avoiding my eyes, I know that this is the beginning of something. It's in the air. It's in their stances, the way they stand in unison, setting their shoulders and flexing their fingers. Uncle Sam kisses Aunt Em, Jared hugs Kim, and Quil looks at me as if he wants to say something.

I shake my head, refusing this to be what I feel like it is: a send-off.

"Let's go," Uncle Sam says.

They're almost all gone when my brain whirrs into action.

"I'm not going to be here when you get back. Wherever it is you're going, I'm not going to be here."

Quil's eyes close in that way he has when he's trying to keep his patience with me. "You can be as angry with us – with me – as you want, but all I ask of you is that you stay in this house. Please, Claire. I'll explain everything when I get back. Just _stay here._"

His superiority triggers something in me, and I place my hands on his broad chest and shove. Now, I'm not anywhere near as big as Quil, but with six feet and some meat on my bones, I'm close enough to catch him off guard and send him stepping back a few paces. "I'm not your _child_, Quil!" I shout. "You lied to me!"

"I didn't lie –"

I laugh. It sounds ugly and bitter coming out of my mouth, and I hate the way it tastes and the way it warps Quil's face. "No, you didn't lie. You didn't tell me anything at all. You're supposed to be my best friend."

"Quil," Uncle Sam says. His hand is tapping nervously on the frame of the front door.

"We have to go. Please, Claire," Quil says, not letting me pull away when he kisses my forehead. "Please."

I turn away.

The house falls silent after the door shuts. I feel numb and still and it takes me a second to swallow the acrid disbelief on my tongue and the deception in the air. I know Aunt Em is standing there, waiting for me to say something, to react, but all I can think about is her face, twisted and scarred. A bear didn't do that, and the certainty of that thought unbinds my mind and moves my feet.

"I'm leaving."

My hand is on the doorknob when she grabs my arm. "You can't leave, Claire."

And Aunt Em has been in on it the whole time. Emily and her wolf boys. Whatever's happening tonight, she's known about it, and she's known it for a while. It's a cheap shot, but it rolls out of my mouth the second I think it: "Where are your kids, Emily?"

"They're at your mother's house for the summer," she says softly, aware that she's been caught.

"So you knew."

Her hand drops from my arm. The routine of keeping secrets from me stalls her tongue, and when I turn to look at her, her face is hesitant. "What's out there is bigger than you and me," she says, glancing at the door. "Trust me."

Resentment bubbles in my stomach. "Trust you? I will never trust you again."

In a sickening way that I'll probably be sorry for in the morning, it's worth it. She looks like she's about to cry, and the anger and bitterness in my heart won't sway me to care. I push past her to the stairs, and when I get to my room, I lock the door and draw the curtains so that the stars can help light the wide yard in front of the house.

But I don't sleep, because the moon is full and I need to know that my family is okay.

* * *


	2. Chapter Two

_A/N: IMPORTANT! I've started this story over. The first chapter is exactly the same, so you do not have to go back and read if you're already familiar with this story; I've deleted the second and third chapters (though this chapter starts out just as the second did until about a little less than halfway through). Please enjoy, and I hope you like this better than the last version! Many, many, manymanymany thanks to Sprut, who is wonderfully kind and amazing._

_As always,  
Mina :)_

* * *

On one of the walls of my small, plain bedroom, there are pictures taped nearly floor to ceiling. There is no order to the chaos, but I can track a timeline around the wall like a balled up piece of string, up, over, down, around, under: patterns of faces set against a familiar background of green.

I had started the wall when I first moved in eight years ago. At nine years old, I'd still been suffering over the death of my father and the distance between me and my mother and sister, who'd both moved across the country to be with Dad's family. I'd chosen to live here with my favorite Aunt Em instead, to be closer to my summer friends and the big Quileute boys that I'd grown up with, but I still missed my family. Quil had suggested putting their pictures up on the wall so that I wouldn't have to miss them as much, and I'd dug through my photo albums for the best photographs, stealing tape from Aunt Em's No Touch Drawer to stick them right in the middle of the wall.

From then on, the pictures spiraled out in a random circle: old friends from Makah, new friends from La Push, endless trips to First Beach, bonfires, fireworks, family dinners and celebrations and weddings and parties, Uncle Sam in a Santa suit, a grinning Jacob in front of his new garage, Embry and Seth dancing in the rain like fools, Kim and Leah hunching over a small bassinet, and Quil. Pictures upon pictures of Quil: ever grinning, holding me on his shoulders, playing board games with me on the floor of Aunt Em's living room, napping with me on the couch, building sandcastles with me in the sand, teaching me how to drive, leaning over the car to show me how to change the oil… Everyone else fades until it's only his face that I see, smiling up at me hundreds of times over, the same bright brown eyes in every snapshot, the same dimpled cheeks, the same short, black hair.

For some reason, his betrayal stings the most. Putting it that way makes me sound every day of my seventeen years, but that's what it feels like. What else would I call it? All the questions about his age and his size and his strength have been fielded and passed off as silly observations of a young girl, and now I've found out that my _best friend_, the person that's been there for me above everyone else, the person that knows all of my secrets – knows me better than I know myself – is a _wolf_? Every one of those smiles look false now.

I get up with the intent to rip them all off the wall, every happy memory, every lying face, but the painstaking hours it would take to tape them back up again, should I ever forgive any of these people, gives me pause.

"Werewolves," I mumble to myself, staring at the photographs.

It's hard to grasp. Wolves. _The protectors, the guardians of La Push_, Billy always says, and I guess, now that I know the truth, the protectors have probably been my family. I just can't seem to picture it, though: these men somehow morphing into animals. The history is ground into my head from years of fireside stories, of course, and I know the tales by heart, the legends that my enormous family take so much stock in, but I never would've guessed them to be real.

It doesn't occur to me once that it may be a joke. Now that I know, now that I can look at that wall of pictures and see that there _is _something different there, that there _is_ a similarity between all these men, I know that it's absolutely true. They've been lying to me for years to keep this secret from me.

Anger wraps around my throat, squeezing tears out of my eyes. I turn away from the wall only to find another, and suddenly I find that I need to get out of this house. Now.

It takes me all but ten seconds of pacing to convince myself that their betrayal allows me to do whatever the hell I want, despite Quil's plea to do anything but leave. There's a quiet murmuring downstairs – Aunt Emily and Kim must be waiting up, too – but the thunder rolling off the mountains masks the noise I make as I dig my sneakers out from under my bed and tug them on. The air outside is nice enough for my shorts and plain t-shirt, so I yank a sweater from my closet and tie it around my waist, whip my waist-length hair up into a ponytail, and tip-toe to the window.

It goes up smooth (thanks, in large part, to years of use and a hefty can of WD-40) and my bare legs scratch against the frame as I lower myself to the roof of the garage, thanking heaven that I picked such a good room with sneaking-out options. I leave the window open – because, really, once they find out I'm gone, it's not going to matter – and gently drop down to the ground, grunting as I buckle and nearly send myself stumbling into the trashcans on the side of the house.

Moonlight illuminates the road and I look up in surprise to see that the sky is clear. It's starry and beautiful and it'd be a nice night to sit on the beach with Quil, listening to the waves and the trees dance in the breeze, the way we usually would when it's pleasant like this, and I almost turn back to call him before I remember that I'm upset with him, and oh, yeah, he's out doing wolf things. I pull my face into a grimace and jog quietly up the drive, debating silently before turning left. I don't have to have Quil with me to go to the beach.

My years of running track kicks in, my lungs reveling in this pleasant night air. The only sounds at this midnight hour are the _thump-thump _of my sneakers on the pavement and the steady beating of my heart. Usually I carry my music player when I run, blasting what Aunt Em calls "horrible vulgarities" and Brady, the music guru, calls "beats of the Gods." But the quiet night is music enough to calm me down; I lose myself in running, my legs carrying me down a well-worn path I could travel with my eyes closed, and despite the threat of wolves in the back of my mind, I'm completely at ease.

I'm at First Beach before I realize it. I pick my way to a large piece of driftwood and sit with a sigh. It's hard to reconcile my anger with my worry. There's a part of me that cares what they're all doing right now, where they are, why they were so uncharacteristically grave and serious at Aunt Em's house. But there's another part, much stronger and much more easily dealt with, that's still angry. It'd actually be kind of cool – I mean, mythical creatures? Seriously? – if they hadn't hidden it from me.

Waves crash peacefully against the shore and I close my eyes, breathing in the salty sea air and allowing it to wrap around my long legs, my bare arms, my inky black hair. This beach is more home than the Makah reservation, than La Push itself, than Aunt Em's little house on Gardenier Street. It makes me wish Quil was here, tossing sea stones at me, splashing water against my legs and carrying me back to the car when I got too tired. Quil, my best friend, the werewolf.

I'm torn with that, too. He's a werewolf, but so what? Does that make him any less human? I want to think _yes, _because that's obvious, but it's _Quil_. It's hard to think him a violent, dangerous beast like the image _werewolf _conjures. And according to the Quileute legends, the wolf is a friend of the tribe, a guardian. I've no idea what they'd be protecting us from, but if there are so many of them…

And what exactly are they out doing right now?

There's a slam of a car door nearby. I tense. I knew somebody would come for me eventually, but it can't have been more than a few minutes since I arrived.

Aunt Em's wavering voice comes back to me like an ill omen: _What's out there is bigger than you and me._

A hand crushes my upper arm before I have the time to turn around. I'm pulled, stumbling, across the beach, and as I look up, I almost utter a gasp at the fury on Quil's face.

His grip is strong and I don't want to chance him tightening his fist – I'm definitely going to be bruised in the morning – so I trip along wordlessly, trying to keep up with his stride. He pushes me towards his beat-up truck when we're close enough, a gruff, "Get in and lock the doors," all that's left of him as he disappears into the woods.

I'm shaking; my hand trembles as I reach for the handle and my breath falters in my lungs as I reach across the seat to lock the driver's side door. There is something so disturbing about Quil being mad. His anger has never scared me before – he's a big puppy at heart – but this… The werewolf thing doesn't seem so bad against this.

I lean my head against the seat. It's dark outside the truck, the moon disappearing behind a cloud, and I close my eyes. All my life I've been impulsive, taking actions without thought, and he knew that before asking me to stay; but I should've known that he was trying to look out for me, because he's Quil and that's what he does. Still, his anger irritates me. What right does he have to be upset with me when he just ran off to turn into a werewolf? To leave me sitting in a truck at the beach while he's in the woods somewhere doing who knows what –

The door jerks open. I gasp, wrenching open my eyes to see him chucking a piece of the broken door handle into the tiny back seat of the cab. He slams the door and cranks the ignition at the same time, avoiding my eyes, his muscles tense and vibrating underneath his bare chest. It's quiet as he stomps on the gas and dark as we follow the road home.

"Aren't you going to turn your headlights on?" I ask, glancing at the moonlit trees speeding by.

He's silent.

I cross my arms over my chest. Is he seriously going to play this game? "Quil."

His scraped knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. His voice is terse as he checks the rearview. "I can see in the dark."

"Oh," I say. "Is that one of those _wolf_ things?"

I'm being childish and I know it, but I can't help but goad him. I'm hurt and bitter and tired and we're both angry and not looking at one another, the silence in the cab something altogether new, something scary and upsetting. Quil and I are talkers, have been talkers for as long as we've known one another, always solving our problems before they get too out of hand; and the fact that there's this prolonged, pregnant silence just sitting between us is frustrating.

He doesn't respond to my barb, only rolls his vibrating shoulders as if shaking something off his back. I wait until we're nearer the neighborhood before trying again.

"So you're not going to talk to me? Pretend as if you didn't just tell me you were a werewolf and run off into the night? That's fair. Way to be, Quil," I snipe as he runs a stop sign, gunning the gas when he escapes the streetlights above the community center.

He inhales sharply through his nose and glances out the windows again. "I can't deal with you right now."

"Then don't," I snap. I can see he's heading towards Aunt Em's street, and I'd rather be anywhere else right now. The rolodex in my mind spins, flipping through names of everybody on the rez who might take in a riled up teenager at – I glance at the dashboard clock – one o'clock in the morning.

"Take me to Jacob's."

It's quiet, but he slows, and I know his thoughts are whirring, debating on whether to give me what _I_ want or to take me where _he _wants. Finally he manages a rough, "Jake's not home. You're going back to Emily's."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, please. Can we not – "

"You've no idea what's going on right now, Claire. You're going home, and you're going to stay _in the house_. I'll tie you to a damn chair if I have to."

"You're being – "

Something moves out of the corner of eye, and I glance over mid-sentence, expecting it to be a porch light or the moon, perhaps an animal or a street sign.

It's a face.

My scream is so loud that I'd expect it to at least shatter some glass, but it doesn't last long. With a long stream of cursing, Quil's hand clamps over my mouth before I can find time to blink, and if his hand hadn't been holding my head against the seat, I would've flown through the windshield at his sudden stamping of the brakes. He rips his door open and grabs me around the waist in one fluid motion, and we're off of the road and in the woods before I can comprehend what's going on.

I'm slung over his shoulder like a knapsack. In the darkness of the forest, I've no idea what's happening save for the fact that there had been a _person_ running beside Quil's truck, staring at me with a manic grin stretched across his chalky white face. And his _eyes – _

"Quil," I say, frantic and confused. He's sprinting between the trees at a breakneck pace. How he manages to miss hitting something I've no idea, but I clutch at his waist and keep myself from blinking, looking everywhere I can for another hint of that man. "Quil, what's going on? Who was that?"

"Damn it, Claire," he mutters. He's shaking all over. "Hang on."

I claw my fingernails into his sides and glare into the skin of his back. "I'm _trying. _Will you answer me? Who was that?"

An unearthly boom of thunder explodes off the mountains as Quil leans forward a bit, pushes himself harder. I can feel his back move underneath my cheek, barely breathing with the ridiculous speed he's running at, and his grip tighten on my thighs. I'm scared to death of something I can't see, something I don't quite understand, something Quil's trying to keep me from. The wind rushes past and the sky rumbles. My eyes won't shut.

I feel like I'm in a car heading for a steep cliffside; nothing else to do but hang on and pray for divine intervention.

"Quil?"

His chest rumbles. "It's fine, Claire. We're fine. Everything's great. Just… shut up and let me think."

I press my mouth shut. This is bad. This is worse than the time I snuck out to go to Luke Whitman's house and Aunt Em stayed up until I stumbled in drunk with no shoes and hardly a sense of where I was; worse than the time I crashed Jacob's car into a tree and damaged a really expensive engine piece that he'd just had imported; worse than… hell, this is on a completely different scale of bad. This is mythically bad. The kind of bad where you _die_.

It occurs to me that just that morning I'd been sitting in the living room with a bowl of cereal and the midday cartoons, the very picture of ordinary, and now I'm racing through the midnight forest on the back of a werewolf. It's insane, and I want to think I'll wake up in a few minutes and pass it all off as a horribly realistic dream, but –

And then I see it: a flash of something iridescent in the darkness. My heart jumps into my throat. It's actually two flashes near one another, bouncing slightly before blinking out of sight and coming back again, and it takes a hazy second for me to see them for what they are. Eyes.

"_Quil!_"

"It's Seth," he grunts, slowing his pace. I don't ask how he knows. He looks around before stopping completely, and then does a full circle before placing me lightly on my feet. "Don't move. I mean it."

It's not like I'd be able to if I wanted to. The eyes that apparently belong to Seth hold mine as they come closer. _He's going to be a wolf, _I tell myself as a twig snaps underneath his weight. _He's going to be a wolf when you see him. _Somehow my hand finds Quil's as his eyes scour the forest and I grip it, hard, as Seth slowly, gradually, gently steps into view.

I gasp, but cannot turn away. It is not what I had expected at all. A little wolf, perhaps, like the ones from Discovery Channel; maybe one of those man-wolves from horror movies, standing upright and maintaining a slightly human shape. This is just… He's _mammoth_. His… his fur is light, almost like the color of sand, his paws – his _paws! –_ are bigger than my head, and his eyes, round and dark, are trained on mine. I can tell his steps are deliberate as he moves towards us, and in my head I know it's Seth, my Seth, but I unconsciously step back into Quil's chest.

"Seth," Quil warns.

"Oh, my God," I whisper, shaking my head. "Seth."

He ducks his… God, what is it? Snout? Muzzle? His head dips down, and he's so big that he's still close to my height. I want to ask if they all get this large, how it happens, if it hurts, but the words get stuck in my throat at the thought of Quil ripping out of his own skin and turning into an animal. Dropping his hand, I step forward again, my sneakers crunching against the forest floor, and get as close to Seth as I deem safe.

His mouth opens and his tongue curls out as he watches me watch him, and for a moment I can see him in there, underneath the fur and the teeth and the ears. The realization hurts.

My family are _werewolves._

"How many of him are there?" Quil asks, and it takes me a second to realize that he's talking to Seth and not me.

I look to Seth for his reaction. He paws the ground once, then almost prances in a circle, his tail wagging. He almost looks excited, and if I weren't about to pass out from fear, I'd laugh. I stand between them, however, and try to make sense of this all without asking any questions.

"Finally," Quil says, smiling a little. "Does Sam have him, or – "

The wolf freezes. A rumble rises in his throat as he turns his head towards the trees, bearing his teeth. Quil tenses behind me.

"What?" I question, turning myself towards Quil. I put my hands on his face to pull his gaze to mine, but his hands grip my wrists in a vice and hold them against my chest. The forest is quiet save for Quil's deep breathing, the low growls coming from the wolf behind me, and the pounding of my heart. "Quil, what is it?"

"Shh."

"But – "

"_Claire._"

He looks… I don't know. I've never seen this on his face before. It's a mixture of angry and worried and determined and scared, and it pushes my stomach straight to the ground. I plead instead with my eyes. _What's going on? What's happening? Why are we still standing in the middle of the woods? What's Seth looking for?_

The wolf – Seth – barks. It's like a shout, really, if he'd been human, and I catch but a single glimpse of him when I turn around before he's gone, a quick flash of light tackling him through the darkness. There's a splitting crash a few feet away followed by growls and hissing and an eerie, high-pitched keening sound that raises goosebumps on my arms. Something snaps. Far off, a wolf howls. Thunder ricochets in the clear night sky.

It's still.

I step forward tentatively, trying to will my eyes to adjust to the night. "Seth?"

"Claire." Quil grabs my arm again and pulls me back towards him. "Stop."

"Is he – ?"

Quil is practically vibrating beside me, his eyes wide and staring into the woods. I place my hands around his bicep and try to hide my face in his chest, the sooner to be rid of this nightmarish night, the echoes of their growls in my head drowning out the rapid stuttering of my heart, and surprisingly he doesn't hold me back this time. His palm is warm on my back. He starts murmuring assurances, but I know that they're half-hearted and his mind is elsewhere.

I'm hesitant to ask, but his heart is thudding so loudly against my forehead that I can't not. "What's going on, Quil?"

"I'll explain later," he whispers, tucking my face into the crook of his neck instead. He's still shaking; I can feel it against every warm plane he's got pressed against me. "I'll explain everything later, I promise. We need to be quiet right now."

"But why?"

He heaves a sigh. "Because I could lose control of myself and kill you. _That_ is a werewolf thing. Just please be quiet so I can listen. I need to keep you safe."

"Is that always a werewolf thing? Killing people?"

"_Claire._"

"I'm sorry," I whisper against his chest, wrapping my arms around his waist. It's so hard to keep quiet, but the thing that had tackled Seth – big, huge, enormous _werewolf _Seth – is out there somewhere, possibly nearby, and I'm alone with Quil in the middle of the woods…

"Quil! Claire!"

The sudden voice makes me jump. Quil calms completely, nearly melting in my arms, and I turn to see the vague outlines of what I think are Sam and Embry coming towards us, both of them half naked and scratched to hell. Embry wipes bloody sweat from his forehead and wipes it on his jeans as he reaches us.

"He got away," Embry says, shaking his head. "We thought we'd gotten the real one, but the bastard – "

Quil interrupts him, looking to Sam. "Is it safe? To go home, at least. I'm know I'm on duty tonight, but I need to get her home."

"Yeah. We'll follow you there," Sam says. "You okay, Claire?"

I'm tired and panicked and confused, and there is nothing that I understand about this night. I don't understand how they morph into wolves, I don't understand what's going on, I don't understand where Seth is or if something's hurt him, I don't understand who – or what – that man was that had been running beside the truck. I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at them the same way again, if I'll be able to come into these woods without remembering those big, glinting red eyes. I don't understand how this can be real.

But I nod.

Quil bends down to lift me in his arms, and I sink into his grip and keep my eyes on my hands lying slack in my lap. There is no speaking as we pass Sam and Embry, and I don't have the courage or energy to say anything to Quil. I close my eyes as he sits me in the truck and don't open them when he gets in and shuts his door.

He doesn't start the ignition right away. I can feel him watching me. "I'm sorry," he says. "It's just…"

I shrug. I want to be angry with him. I want to ignore him, give him the cold shoulder, not talk to him for a while. I want to shout at him. I want to run. Most of all, I want to sleep, but I'm afraid to give in to nightmares I know I'll have, twisted visions of wolves and red eyes and chasing, chasing, chasing.

I don't say anything. The roar of the engine is loud in our silence.

"Do you want to go to Emily's?" he asks when we near the neighborhood. I open my eyes. We're idling at an intersection, and he's watching me carefully, his brow furrowed.

"I just want to sleep," I sigh.

"Jake's?"

"I don't care, Quil."

He presses his lips together, giving me one last, long gaze, and takes a left. A moment later, I feel his warm palm slip into my hand, and as much as I want to fight it, I grip it tight. Tomorrow I'll ask my questions. Tomorrow…

* * *


	3. Chapter Three

__

A/N: Hiii! A big thanks to everyone who is reviewing and watching and favoriting! I hope you enjoy :)

_And also, because this story is about more than Claire (and because I limited myself with her POV), I wanted to give everyone ways to find out what's going on with everyone else - Quil, the other wolves, the Cullens, the baddies... So, what that means for you guys: for each of your reviews (from three on; one and two don't apply), I'll send you a snippet of something that's going on outside of Claire's sphere. They'll probably be about 500-1000 words each and will give you more ideas as to what's happening. I don't write them until after the chapter, so I can't guarantee who will be in each one. You don't have to review if you don't want to, I promise: I won't reveal anything major that you can't already glean from the chapter, as that wouldn't be fair. They're just little deleted scenes, if you will :)_

_And I know that people who reviewed the old chapter three will not be able to review this one, so if you'd like, just throw me a quick PM and I'll send you this chapter's extra!_

_I am forever in debt to Sprut, who deserves SO many thanks! Fahrenheit wouldn't be here without her!_

_As always,  
Mina :)_

* * *

**FAHRENHEIT**

Chapter Three

* * *

"…stopped short and turned. We had to trace him back to the line."

"Not like it matters anymore. You should've gone for it."

"Ugh, right? But you know how Jake's all adamant about it, so Sam here wouldn't let us cross. It's been, what, fifteen years? You'd figure it _wouldn't _matter. We could've caught him."

"Or a duplicate of him. Again."

"We almost had the real one! If you would've let us follow him, Paul and I could've caught up to him easy, ripped his smarmy ass apart. But no, Jake says this, Jake says that. When you lost your balls, Sam, that's what I wanna know."

"Hey – "

"So obv – "

"Shut the hell up, moron, she's sleeping. Has he heard anything from them?"

"_Them?_ Not since… well, you know. Not since he came back. I don't think any of us has heard from them since then. Don't really want to, either."

"S'pose not. But why would there be another leech around if they haven't been here?"

"Curious, I guess? We _are _a pack of rank-smelling wolves. Maybe he caught wind, decided to investigate, and wanted to play around once he discovered us."

"It's been years, though. Hell, the Cullens were the last leeches that'd been 'round. Doesn't make much sense."

"He's gone for now, though. We'll just have to put more people on patrol and keep up watch. You stay here tonight, Quil, and make sure she's okay. I'll cover your shift and let Emily know what's going on."

"Thanks, Sam."

"I definitely don't envy you that."

"Yeah, well… yeah. If you don't hear from me tomorrow, you'll know why."

"Call us if…"

**- - - 212 - - -**

Instead of the sound of Quil banging around in the kitchen, cursing and fumbling and being generally noisy and irritating, I wake to a soft humming and the mouthwatering _shhhh_ of bacon on a skillet. It makes my stomach grumble, and for a second everything feels okay, like it's an ordinary summer morning with a delicious breakfast and the promise of silly cartoons.

But then I try to move.

Pain shoots up at my arm as I attempt to turn onto my back and I automatically still, gritting my teeth. Besides the pinpricks of blood rushing through my sleeping veins, which is just lovely, there's a band of violet circling my upper arm. I move my other hand to enclose gently around it, and my fingers almost fit with the outline of Quil's. Great. Just one more thing to be added to the list of reasons why I shouldn't be speaking to him. Physical abuse? Check!

"Oh, sweetheart, that looks pretty bad."

And, of course, Quil dumped me at his house and brought Emily over. _Who else would be cooking breakfast, Claire?_ I turn away from her as she sits next to me on the leather sofa and pull my arm back as she grabs my shoulder to get a better look. A leftover bitterness is still there from yesterday. I can't help but wish anyone – _anyone _– but her was here with me. What, was she an ambassador now? Human-Werewolf Relations?

"Claire, stop it," she sighs, pulling her hands away as if stealing my thoughts through touch. "I'm sorry about yesterday, but we didn't have any time to prepare; everything happened at once_._"

I push the blankets off my legs and get to my feet, crossing my arms over my chest as I toe at the carpet. "I want to know what's going on. Because we were in the woods last night, and – "

"I know. Quil told me," she says softly. "That's why I'm here."

"Where is he?"

"There was…"

Her pause pulls my eyes to her face. She's biting her lip, her eyes narrowed, clearly wrestling with words. Giving her patience that surprises even me, I wipe the sleep from my eyes and stretch my exhausted muscles while she stares. Last night – early this morning, whatever – was not such a draining exercise, but for some reason I feel like I'd been steamrolled. Half the time Quil had even been carrying me around on his back.

Emily sighs again, grabbing my hand to pull me down next to her on the couch. "There was a fire this morning, in Forks. Usually we wouldn't be so concerned, but… have the boys told you anything about a girl named Bella?"

"It doesn't sound familiar," I say. "But it's not like they've told me anything about that anyway."

She massages her temples. "We'll have to start from the beginning, then. Do you want me to, or should I call Quil back?"

I'm not sure. He had promised to talk to me about all of this, but if he actually wanted to, he'd be here right now instead of traipsing around with the guys. It feels like I don't know him anymore. I know that I'm not the center of his universe, and, okay, maybe I'm acting like a brat, but he should be here. He _promised._

So I ask, "Who is Bella?"

She takes this as my answer. Sitting against the arm of the couch, she faces me and folds her hands in her lap; I mirror her pose. If I didn't know any better, it'd look like we were settling in for a gossip session. "Bella Swan was Chief Swan's daughter."

Maybe we were. "I didn't know he had a daughter. I thought nobody came back to his house when he died?"

"You were so young," Emily says almost wistfully. "Bella had left a long time before that. She and – maybe I should slow down. Okay. Bella's parents divorced when she was a baby, and she'd been spending summers in Forks for years."

"Is this relevant to the werewolf thing, or are we just talking about the fire?"

She purses her lips. "If you'd have patience, Claire… Chief Swan – Charlie – and Billy had been good friends, and so Jake and Bella naturally grew up together during her summer visits. But when she was your age, she moved here to live with Charlie. That was the time a lot of the Quilieute men started transforming into wolves. There's a reason, and I'll get to that soon. Bella went to school in Forks, and it was there that she met the Cullen family."

Something indefinable passed through her voice as she spoke the name, and I was a breath away from asking who they were when she shook her head. "They were… I never met all of them personally, but Bella adored them. She used to come to the rez a lot, especially when – when the Cullens left for a while. She was a sweet girl. Jacob loved her."

I sat back. I was probably gaping. But then, hello, _Jake_? Serial dater Jake? "What?"

"Don't sound surprised," Emily laughed. "Jake's been through a lot. He loved Bella, but Bella was in love with one of the Cullen boys, Edward. That family was… do you remember the legends?"

Do I remember the legends? What kind of a question is that? They're only etched into my brain. I probably don't know them as well as Emily does, seeing as she glues her face to that notebook every time we tell the stories by the fire, but I know them well enough to narrow my eyes in suspicion at her swift change of subject.

What is she trying to say?

The werewolves are real; the stories are real. Is that it? I understand that easily enough – our ancestors were the original spirit warriors, and the wolf gene_, _so to speak, is passed through the bloodlines like a totally strange sickness. Instead of something normal, like hemophilia, my family is in danger of lycanthropy.

I don't know which would be worse, but, well, there it is.

But how does this fit into this hidden soap opera? I hadn't even known that this Bella existed – what had she done that'd kept her story from being spoken? Who were these Cullens that Emily was so wary to talk about? Did she run away with them or something? Scorned Jacob, abandoned her dad, took flight with Edward, never to be seen again?

"The story with the missing maidens and the third wife," Emily prompts me, bringing me out of my thoughts. Her eyes are wary. "Do you remember that one?"

The third wife. The third wife… what did she do again? I stare at Emily's hands, cinnamon and lined, the blue of her veins showing on the underside of her thin wrists. The third wife sacrificed herself, didn't she? Grabbed someone's knife and stabbed herself. But why? There was a fight or something, wasn't there?

Emily jumps as the front door swings open. I'm momentarily distracted by Quil walking in, shirtless, a cautious smile on his face. It's apologetic, a little guilty, a little ashamed. He doesn't take his eyes from me as he shoves his hands in his the pockets of his cargo shorts and steps into the living room. There's a pink line stretching across his chest that I hadn't seen last night. It's faint, near invisible, but I've seen him without a shirt more often than I've seen him with clothes on, and it sticks out against his skin.

_What's out there is bigger than you and me._

Emily asks him how everything went in Forks, but I'm too lost in a sudden thought to comprehend his answer.

There _is _something to be protected from. The legends are true, after all – the wolves are the guardians, and the enemy… the third wife killed herself so that her blood would be spilled. Cold ones. Vampires. With white skin and red, red eyes.

Like the one that had been running next to the truck last night.

This time, I do laugh. It's borderline hysterical and not at all indicative of anything humorous, but I don't have any other reaction. There is no way to refute this. I'd seen Seth as a werewolf, and if I can trust my eyes, I'd even seen one of the cold ones. A few inches of air and a weak plate of glass had been the only things separating my face from a vampire's teeth.

I rub absently at my bruised arm. Quil's watches me, wincing as he notices the purple band on my skin, and moves slowly to sit on my other side.

"Claire?"

"We were being chased by a _vampire _and you didn't _tell me_?"

Quil throws Emily a dirty look before placing his large hands on my face. His voice is as soft as his eyes. "I would not – I will _never _let anything happen to you. Nothing was going to happen."

"You don't know that," I snap, pulling my face out of his grasp and standing. Emily gets up from the couch, whether to give us some measure of privacy or escape the line of fire I'm not sure. Probably both. "You… you… a _vampire_, Quil? How many were there?"

He sighs. I barely catch the eye roll he tries to hide as he braces his hands on his thighs. "There was one, but he could multiply. Sometimes leeches have special talents."

"Really," I say. And then I don't say anything, because… what? Werewolves as big as cars and vampires that multiply. What else is there to say?

"It would've been easier had you stayed inside like I asked you to," he grumbles. "You just egged him on more."

My mouth drops open. "I'm _sorry, _next time a murderous mythological creature out for my blood is in town, I'll be sure to alert the townsfolk and grab my torch and pitchfork. Maybe we'll wait for our werewolf friends to save us with our little garlic necklaces and crosses."

"Claire," Emily says from the kitchen, her voice low. "Watch your mouth."

"Are you done?" Quil asks. His jaw clenches as he crosses his arms, and I'm glad that he's sitting down and not towering above me with those glowering eyes.

"What?"

"Are you done throwing your fit? Can we sit down and talk about this?"

My face colors. "No! No lies. Remember that? _No lies._"

"Why do you keep insisting that I'm _lying _to you? I've told you nothing but the truth, Claire. And you were four when we started that. I think you're older now."

This, more than his anger, feels like a slap in the face. "So that makes it, what, invalid now? Like you can lie to me because I'm older and we grew out of a stupid little saying?"

"I haven't lied!" he shouts, jumping to his feet.

"Quil…" Emily warns.

"Stay out of this, Emily," he growls. "What is this about, Claire? Really. It's not the damn vampire, is it? Because so far I think you're just making up excuses to be angry with me."

I stop. Stare. He's right. Of course he's right. A big part of me is indignant that it's taken them this long to let me in on this big secret, but then… It only makes sense that Quil would read between the lines. There's something heavy stuck in my heart that keeps the truth somewhere deep, and, as always, he's there to wait patiently, to help me string it out word by word.

It's just so much easier to stay angry with him than admit something much more vulnerable.

"I was… scared. I'm scared."

To my horror, traitor tears start to swim on my lower eyelids and there's a stupid waver hiding in my voice. I want to turn away from him, to run from this, but I can't look away. He processes this and I watch his face fall as he pulls me to him. I'm still upset – at him, at Emily, at myself – but I sink into his arms anyway, resting my head against his chest and winding my arms around his waist.

Languid yet hesitant, his knuckles run down the ridges of my spine. "Of me?"

I don't answer.

His hand stops after a moment.

It's a non-answer, but what can I say?It's partly true, partly not, but I'm mostly afraid of what's inside of him. He'd said himself that he could lose control of himself and kill me. He'd been shaking so badly at the time, trying to keep himself from shredding through his skin. I felt his muscles ripple as he held me to him, and it was the sound of Seth and the vampire in the darkness of the woods that kept me from pushing him away. Seth had been docile, but Quil… is he unable to control it?

What if _I _make him that angry? Would I end up like Emily?

Or worse?

We don't speak, and as I watch the sun rise in the morning sky, clear and vibrant like the perfect shade of faded jeans, I tell myself that there's not a chance in the world. He'd never – there's no way that he'd hurt me. Accidental bumps and bruises aside, he's always been gentle with me.

I press my face into his neck, hiding from the answer. "Does it hurt?"

"No," he says. He rests his chin on the top of my head. "Not always. It did at first, but you get used to it."

"Oh. Um, are you that color, too? Sandy, like Seth?"

His chuckle rumbles in his chest. "More of a chocolate color. Do you want me to show you?"

His face is very, very close as I pull back, my hands resting on his forearms. My reply dies somewhere on its way out of my mouth – _You won't maul me, will you? _– as he stares down at me, his eyes wide and brown, and I find myself getting nervous. Very, very nervous.

_Why is he looking at me like that?_

"I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head. "I don't want you to be afraid of me. You shouldn't be. We're not like them, I swear."

He presses his forehead against mine and closes his eyes and there's a moment where I'm tempted to reach up and place my hand against his neck. I don't know what it is or where it comes from, maybe some instinctual, primal kind of thing, maybe something I've seen Emily do to Sam when she tries to placate him, but the urge startles me.

I press against his arms instead and he leans back immediately. I smile – forgiving, hopefully masking – and nod. "It's okay. I, um, think I'm going to go to Zoe's house today, though, if that's cool. She's been asking me to hang out since school's ended but I've been spending all my time…"

_With you_.

The rest of the sentence peters off into silence, and we're left staring at one another, the two words just hanging there. He looks hurt and taken off guard and confused – we've always spent time together without complaint, so this shouldn't be anything new – but the room's gotten hot and all I want to do is escape. His arms are scorching underneath my hands; how had I not noticed that, either? And the weight of his stare, sometimes…

"I'll, um," I say, cutting off my thoughts. "I'll just go back home and pick up some stuff."

He pushes his hands in his pockets again, a reflex hotwired to his nerves. "Do you want me to drop you off?"

"I'll take her," Emily says, making a miraculous appearance at my side and cupping her hand around my elbow. She won't look at me. "You coming over later for lunch, Quil?"

It takes him a prolonged second to respond, but he nods. "Yeah. I'll be there. Sam wanted to – "

He glances at Emily, and then at me.

_No lies._

"Sam wanted to talk about tracking the leech. He thinks we might've missed a trail near the South," he finishes. Without a word, he turns around and disappears up the stairway. There's the sound of the faucets turning in the bathroom, and then the shower starting up.

"Do you still want breakfast?" Emily asks, dropping her hand.

"No," I say. I'd forgotten all about it, but my stomach's oddly full now. I take a deep breath and let it out slow, closing my eyes. "Can we just go to Zoe's? She might be up."

"Sure."

No radio, no humming, no talking. The wind doesn't even blow loudly in the open windows. There's just silence. Emily steers and I sit staring at the dashboard. She's disappointed in my behavior – I can feel it radiating off of her – but I'm just numb. And it seems not even the sun can thaw that.

* * *


End file.
